nakedjen

It's Been So Long

How do you get the naked girl to show up at your store grand opening? 

You give her free clothes!

Happy Naked Friday! 

 

Older women can afford to agree that femininity is a charade, a matter of colored hair, ecru lace and whalebones...

My friend, W, likes to nominate me for silly awards like the person who makes the biggest fool of herself when she orders at a fast-food Drive-Thru window.  Of course, let's think about that for just one moment, shall we?  I don't eat fast-food. Like ever.  But when I happen to be driving with W across the country to move her from one house to another because I'm a good friend like that and will show up to help you move all your stuff from one house to another house when you need me to do that we inevitably end up going through at least one or two of seventy fast-food drive-thrus to get her some food.  I have no idea what it is that is so damn funny, but I can assure you that it is legendary (as far as W is concerned) and it makes her laugh so hard that soda comes out her nose and she pees her pants.  I'm quite certain that it makes all of you just wish that you could take a road-trip with me tomorrow.  

The other thing about me that makes W just laugh until my famous champagne punch flies out her nose and she pees her pants is my own attempts at the application of false eyelashes.  And any kind make-up.  W happens to be really, really excellent at make-up.  She got the make-up gene and she really knows what she's doing.  While I think she is one amazingly beautiful person, anyway, I will admit that she knows how to use make-up to enhance her natural beauty and I really do not even notice it on her. 

You'll notice, in that photo, that my false eyelashes look like a kindergarten student pasted them on a cow while blindfolded.  Well that's because that is precisely what happened.  More or less.  Just insert Nakedjen for the kindergarten student and there you go.  I am not good at this.  Not at all.  W, who is on the left, is obviously so good at it that she looks as if those sparkly beautiful long lashes sprouted right from her own eyes.  And P, who is on my right, well, she's one of those people who also is very astute with make-up.  Like a pro.  Could work at M.A.C. if she wasn't already so damn good as a nurse helping you to deliver your precious babies.  But she's also one of those natural California beauties and doesn't even have to think about make-up.  Ever. 

I shared earlier this week that I have worn make-up on Halloween.  And for festivals. 

 

Of course when I do that, it is all rather garish and obvious and slap everyone in the face with a "HERE I AM, PAY ATTENTION!" kind of over the top look. 

 

And if the rest of me is going to be naked, well, I'll continue to glitter and the make-up on all body parts, not just on my face.  Again, though, it's a really far out and special occasion.  This is not for grocery shopping.  I can only imagine how the folks at Smith's in Utah would react if I came grocery shopping in that particular get-up?  Actually, there's a part of me that is so tempted to do it just to find out.

In this exploration of make-up this week, I realized that what I really focus on far more than the rouge on my cheeks or the mascara on my lashes or even the gloss on my lips is, without a doubt, the color of my hair.

If we're going to talk about ways that I manipulate my appearance (and perhaps even obsess) we can talk about my hair.  However, I'm going to also in the same breath tell you that I'm REALLY LAZY when it comes to my hair and that it is primarily just about color for me and not about style.  I don't even own a blow dryer. Or a hair brush.  If you see me on a daily basis, you know this is absolutely true.

I also, in the gathering of photos for this blog post, came across this one and I wanted to share it because it is one particular moment where I felt compelled to wear make-up precisely because I had no hair.

 

I'm going to tell you right now that I did not do my make-up for that occasion. No way. No how.  I was in Las Vegas for the nuptials of some very good friends (and managed to fall in love myself at the same time...isn't that how it happens at weddings?) and there happened to be a M.A.C. store very near my hotel.  I stopped in there and had them create that face.  For me.  To be honest I felt little bit like a clown.  It itched! 

This feels a bit like a confessional, and I suppose that it is, but I'm going to share that meeting all those strangers for the first time and being practically bald and very single made me feel, well, less than fabulous and I thought I should DO SOMETHING to make up for it. It's true.  I really did.  I felt like I needed to almost apologize for my plain jane nearly bald boring self.  So I went to M.A.C. and had them accentuate the positive.  Or at least that is what I was hoping would happen.  Looking at that picture, I'm not exactly sure WHAT happened, to be honest?  Because I know that I actually feel much more beautiful when I'm truly naked.  I just do.  It is my most truest expression of who I am and when I express my most authentic beauty.  Go ahead and say PFFT.  But for me, it is just the way that it is.

So back to my hair.  Obviously, that trip to Las Vegas, I had none.  I also had chosen not to color it at all and that was because, in that particular moment, I was trying to decide for myself if I was going to just stop with the colors on my head.  That didn't happen.  As soon as my hair got long enough for it to really matter, well, I got bored (and I will admit that a lot of the stuff I do to my hair is derived from boredom) and changed it up.  The thing is with hair that you can do that easily.  Or at least with my hair you can do that easily.  My hair is really forgiving.  It is thick, it is curly, it will "dread" in a matter of days because of my lack of a hairbrush and it loves color.  So just as so many women enjoy using their faces as a canvas, I use my hair as one.  One continually changing canvas. 

To wit, my hair just over the last few years.  What's missing are photos of my long, red hair.  It was really pretty.  I sometimes think I should go back to that, but my favorite, obviously is PINK.  I need to go back to pink.  Which means I need to quit my job.  Because the hospital has forbidden pink.  Which is like saying that the hospital has forbidden ME, don't you think?  And that just feels like a crime.  

* This blog post is part of No Make-Up Week.  Rachel Rabbit White is encouraging the entire world to explore their own personal relationship to make-up.  I'm participating.  I think all of you should, too.  Because whether you wear make-up or not, it is still a choice and is truly a part of all our daily lives.

Being happy isn't having everything in your life be perfect. Maybe it's about stringing together all the little things like wearing these pants or getting to Santa Cruz - making those moments count for way more than the bad stuff.

This is a story that begins with a pair of pants.  A pair of pants that I acquired quite by accident last summer.  A very particular pair of pants that I actually lusted after for quite some time, but never actually purchased because spending that kind of money on those kinds of pants seemed all kinds of frivolous.  Especially when I was in the middle of losing house and home and husband all in one fell swoop. 

Which is why, when I happened upon the very same pair of pants, the pants I had wanted, the pants I really did not need but oh so desired, among all the very many thousands of pants that are there for the wanting at our DI early last summer I decided that the goddesses of the pants Universe had decided that I had waited and wanted for quite long enough. 

I bought the pants.  For $1.99.  The pants, as you see, were meant to be.

Saturday morning, the sky was crystal blue, the sun a glowing orb of goodness, the air was cool and crisp, the birds were singing spring songs of cheer and I woke up in Santa Cruz.  My home where I am truly understood, at least most of the time.

I pulled the pants from my suitcase, slipped them on and it is right then that I noticed that either I had shrunk or my pants had found some sort of pants growing magical fairy dust while they've been hiding out in the bottom of my dresser drawer because no sooner had I pulled them up over my ass then they slipped right back down to my ankles.  Completely.  Without need to unbutton, unzipper or in any way manipulate them.

These exact same treasured pants that I wore nearly every day tucked under sassy short dresses were most decidedly suddenly two sizes too big. At least.

Inconceivable!

I didn't have a belt with me, nor anything that could easily be fashioned into something that might hold these most treasured and favorite of all my pants up.  I did have plenty of other clothes with me, clothes that fit just perfectly fine, clothes that were also absolutely weather appropriate for that most gorgeous of first days of Spring in Santa Cruz.  Did I change in to them?  Of course I did not.  That would have been a far too rational thing to do.

Instead, I grabbed a fistful of pant in one hand, grabbed all my other stuff in the remaining free hand and headed out the door. 

As I was driving to Holly's house, whom I was meeting to go clean our beloved and beautiful beaches, I called her to beg for the two things I needed most in the world right at that moment.  Coffee and a belt.

She sounded like death.  Warmed over with a side of fries.  I had just seen her the evening before and couldn't possibly imagine what had transpired in the few hours since, but was imagining that there had been some sort of horrific zombie flu invasion in her quadrant of Santa Cruz and my brain was immediately trying to think of what the hospital had told us about how to combat zombie flu invasions.  Feed it? Starve it?  Drink only liquids?  Meanwhile, Holly is saying something about no belts and no coffee and she might not go to the beach and, oh god, she has to go!

At that very moment, I was passing an exit on the freeway where if I hopped off I knew there was a strip mall (do we not all just despise strip malls?  All together now.  THEY SUCK AND CAN BE THE FIRST THING TO GO IN THE ZOMBIE FLU INVASION!) that had a drug store, a grocery store, and a Peet's coffee.  In other words, perhaps a belt? And definitely coffee.

So I hopped off the freeway and hopped into the parking lot of this craptastic strip mall.  I will just now add, because this will be important later, that the parking lot for this particular strip mall is all kinds of backwards.  Let's face it.  This is California.  At the beach.  Where real estate is a high premium.  If we're going to have a parking lot, well, we're going to construct it like a small kid with her Legos and squeeze as many Matchbox cars as we can possibly fit into the allotted one hundred square feet.  Believe me, a girl with her Legos and Matchbox cars and get really creative if she has too.  Especially when that land is costing her a gabillion dollars.

I parked. Holding a fistful of pants in one hand, I wandered into the grocery store.  Yes, the grocery store.  In search of a belt.  At that point I probably should have gotten the COFFEE first so I could actually have some of my brain function before attempting to solve the BELT issue, but I didn't have the COFFEE and thus didn't THINK to actually get the COFFEE and instead just kept thinking about the fact that I was wearing NO UNDERWEAR and would truly be at least HALF NAKEDJEN if I didn't do something about the PANTS ISSUE pronto.

Fistful of pants. Wandered the aisles of the grocery store.  I actually went to the produce department and searched for twist ties.  Yes, twist ties.  DO NOT JUDGE ME, PEOPLE.  I had not had coffee.  Enough twist ties tied together and you can make a belt.  You know, like on Survivor, only BETTER!  Only because California is in such a horrible and deep depression they are not even providing the good citizens there with twist ties for their plastic bags in the produce department.  (California, I want you to know we have lots of twist ties here in Utah.  I will send you some if you truly need them!). 

Thwarted with the twist ties, I tried to find the "sewing supplies".  Instead I found the Hardware Section. Of the Grocery Store.  Where I found DUCT TAPE.  And, yes, of course, I went all McGuyver and figured I could just fashion an oh so fashionable DUCT TAPE BELT.  For the magical pants.  That would keep me from being HALF NAKEDJEN. 

Oh, but, what was that I spied in the HARDWARE section right next to the DUCT TAPE?  Industrial sized safety pins.  Which, you know, can be pinned together.  To make a belt!  Those of us with pants suddenly large enough to fit Mr. T can still be STYLISH, you know.  A SAFETY PIN BELT.  I would be oh so GOTH and very SANTA CRUZ all in the very same instance. 

So I grabbed the industrial safety pins.  With my fistful of pants I wandered to the cashier where I was reminded, oh so very well, about the very special nature of cashiers in Santa Cruz.

You can never just check out at a store in Santa Cruz.  That is just a near impossibility.  This is because your cashier is nearly always having a conversation about the surf conditions with their buddy who somehow just happened to wander in shortly before you appeared at the cash register.  Not only that, but whatever you're purchasing that day, be it orange juice or, I don't know, INDUSTRIAL SAFETY PINS, is the most fascinating item in the store for purchase that the cashier has EVER LAID EYES ON and he spends at least ten minutes completely enthralled and fascinated that YOU FOUND THIS IN THIS STORE?!?!

Ten minutes. Swear to god.  Holding a fistful of pants and two dollars.  WITHOUT COFFEE!! To just buy the pins that would eventually keep me from being naked.

In the parking lot, I hooked all the safety pins together to form one long unbroken chain of safety goodness, weaved it through the belt loops on my pants, and then, well, I was no longer in danger of pants to the ankles slippage.

So I headed into Peet's.  For COFFEE.  I completely confounded the boy behind the counter with my request for a SHOT IN THE DARK.  He had absolutely no idea what it was that I wanted.  So I explained it to him and asked for TWO SHOTS, please, as it had been kind of a rough morning what with my fistful of pants and all.

I'm not exactly certain what happened next except that I know that I was sitting in my cute little rental car, putting the coffee where it was supposed to go, getting ready to go meet Holly when my car came in awful crunching contact with the back end of a Ford F250. 

There was no damage to the truck as it was the trailer hitch that hit my car.  There was some ugly damage to my little rental car and all I could think, honestly, was THANK GOD I'M NOT HOLDING UP MY OWN PANTS!

Of course, I know that this story could be far more interesting and exciting if I had not already addressed the pants situation and instead I had hopped out of the car, the pants had immediately slipped to my ankles, I had somehow found myself entangled in them, I had tripped and fallen, HALF NAKED, into the arms of the truck driver with half of Santa Cruz watching.

Instead, I'm just grateful for INDUSTRIAL SAFETY PINS, for excellent car insurance and for extra shots of espresso because those are all really important and necessary things in your life when you're writing a story about pants.

+++++++++++++

Hey, I'm live on SecondHand Radio with SecondHand Karl, Thursday, March 25, at 10 P.M. EST.  I told Karl that I'm really an open naked book and he can talk to me about anything. So...if you want to ask me about anything that you really want to know, feel free to tune in and join the conversation.  Anyone can call in, anyone can join the chat.  I'd love it if you did!

Stop the Madness

Paris Fashion Week is in full swing.  I'm not going to talk about the fashions, although we all know that I'm a girl who absolutely loves her fashion.  I'm going to talk about the models. 
There is lots of buzz in the press about just how thin some of the models are and what these images are doing to the delicate impressionable psyches of our daughters.

But not just our daughters.  What about us?  Their mothers, their aunts, their grandmothers, their sisters, their friends.  These images being beamed around the globe, these women walking the catwalk who are supposed models of perfection, they weigh on our own psyches, too.

 

My sisters, my mothers, my friends, I encourage you to try your best to see the skeletons before you.

While I won't condemn these women for their x-ray thin bodies because I have no idea, at all, the circumstances that have brought them to this state (there are, dear friends, those of us who are just naturally veryveryvery thin), I will encourage each and every one of you to love the very body that you have.  And to encourage your daughters, your sisters, your mothers, your grandmothers to do the same.

Our bodies, every single one of them, are beautiful.  We do not need to be walking skeletons to portend beauty!

We can eat healthy foods and nourish ourselves, our spirit, our souls.  Skeletons may make a grand fashion statement on Halloween, but they're rather out of fashion the other 364 days of the year. 

We can have fat thighs.  A pudgy stomach.  Breasts!!

 

We can look like this.

Let us love every body, but let us start with our own.

An Addendum:

I was contacted today by someone who informed me that the photos associated with this blog entry were photoshopped and alarmist and not real.

Since I like to be about the truth here at Nakedjen, I've elected to remove those photos and replace them with others that are from actual runway shots and to the best of my knowledge are representative of what I'm discussing.

I'd also like to point all of you who happen to land here to THIS ARTICLE from Newsweek.  They have eloquently articulated a lot of what I'm trying to say and have some very interesting facts and figures about how our children view their bodies and what we might want to do about it.

The Dreaded Dreads

There's a girl, with purple hair, who might be called Nakedjen.  And that girl?  Her hair has dreads.  She didn't do it on purpose, she swears.  She knows that dreads are not so much fun and she also knows that the only way to actually get them out is to shave her head! 
It's taken over a year to actually have hair that she can put in a pony tail again and dye all sorts of fun anad intereseting colors and let me tell you, nakedjen does not want to shave her head.  Not today, anyway.

But she's got dreads, people.  All over her head.

How did this happen? 

Nakedjen does not brush her hair.  Like ever.  Or comb it.  Or even run her own fingers through it.  She's a very lazy girl when it comes to her hair, yes she is.  Which is probably a good reason why she doesn't even deserve to have long hair, isn't it?  She should have that shaved head, void of hair, if she wants that wash and go lifestyle.

Or...

She should learn to use a brush.  And conditioner.  And to do more than just wash and towel dry. 

Why, oh why, dear people of the Internet, does taking care of your hair have to come with such drudgery? 

Maybe I should just stick with the toilet paper look?  I just know this whole brushing thing is so not going to happen.  Help!

There Goes My Wallet

There are days when I am covered from head to toe in mud and puppy paw prints, drenched to my soul, looking quite less than glamorous that I marvel that once upon a time, I was a girl who strutted around in high heels and very fancy frocks. 

I know you’re laughing.  Go ahead.  Nakedjen in fancy frocks.  It sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it?

I swear to all that is holy and on a pile of Manolos that it is absolutely true.  A long, long, long, long time ago…or maybe not so long ago, really, in the grand scheme of things, but what feels like an entire lifetime ago, I was a woman who truly cared about the labels in her clothing, who lived and died by the little polo pony embroidered on her shirt and the fabric hand of her skirt.  And nearly everything in my closet was black.  Black.Black.Black. 

I thought I was oh so chic.

But the thing of it was, I actually was pretty darn chic.  Or at the very least fashionable.  I was being taught by the very best that there is in the business.  One of my dearest and closest and best friends in the whole universe is Betsy Fisher.  Betsy and I met when we were 10.  Ten, people.  That’s like 32 years ago.  How many friends do you have that you can say you’ve had for 32 years?  We met while sitting on the back of our ponies at Miles River Riding School one summer afternoon.  She was from Pittsburgh, I was from Seaford.  The pony farm provided our playground.  We spent subsequent summers sharing a small one room cabin together in our own version of summer camp while also mucking stalls and showing horses and teasing boys and trying not to make Mrs. Barner completely mad with worry.  Those were some of my most favorite summers.

In the late 1980’s, Betsy, who was alwaysalwaysalways very fashionable, found herself with absolutely nowhere to shop in Washington, D.C.  She was so tired of being uninspired and of seeing the same thing everywhere she looked that she decided to open her own store.  If she was frustrated, she figured that other women were frustrated, too. 

It just so happened that I was at one of those many times in my life when I was trying to figure out what to do with myself when I reconnected with Betsy and her fabulous store.  The Grateful Dead smocks were cast by the wayside and I was soon sporting Isabel Ardee little black skirts and Nanette Lepore jackets.  Nicole Miller dresses.  Anna Sui skirts.  Think Tank one of a kind silk sheaths.  My closet was becoming a place even I didn’t recognize.  Just chock full of lovelylovelylovely things.  Betsy hired me (friends do that, don't they?  oh how lucky I was!) and I worked at the store and soon was going on buying trips with her to New York.  Oh how I loved those buying trips.  Sitting with her in designer showrooms and tempering her enthusiasm just enough to remind her that we had exactly six customers who would truly buy that particular jacket, so we really shouldn’t order any more than six.  Well, maybe one more because we'll find another new customer who will also love it.  But definitely not more than that!  But her eye, people.  She could tell the moment we walked into a showroom whether we even needed to stay.  One glance at a collection and she could either jump up and down with giddy glee or tell them thank you, we’d seen enough.   It is that eye, I am quite certain, that is the reason her store still thrives and has such a very devoted following.  Metro Washington area women completely trust Betsy to find them the unique and very special clothes that are absolutely wearable, absolutely unforgettable, yet they positively know they’re not going to see every other woman in town wearing as well. 

I left Betsy and the store when I moved back to Santa Cruz.  My leaving was not without tears, it was not without heartache, it was not without a bit of trauma.  And I will admit that it was hard to leave those cozy environs behind.  I loved working with her, every single day.  It was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had.  And I would gladly go back to work there again if I ever found myself back on that coast.  It is just that much fun.

For years I have been hoping that Betsy would somehow expand those four walls of her boutique and bring the world of Betsy Fisher online.  I could not, honestly, quite imagine how it would happen, as one aspect that makes Betsy Fisher truly Betsy Fisher is the very personalized service you get at her store.  Betsy remembers you.  She knows what size you wear.  She knows what you’ve bought, what pieces are already in your closet and when she shops in New York or Los Angeles, she actually keeps you in mind and will say, “Oh Marian will love this suit.  It will go great with the pants she bought last year!”  I can not tell you now many times, I’ve heard Betsy say this about each and every customer she has.  She’ll call them, personally, on the phone and tell them about a special sweater that just came in. Or a pair of earrings that remind her of them.  It’s like having your very own personal shopper who is also your best girlfriend and who is making sure you always look absolutely dynamite, no matter what the occasion. 

So how can all that personality translate to the world of online shopping?  Well, I’m not sure that it can.  But still, my special wish has come true.  Betsy Fisher is now an online shopping destination.  And in true Betsy Fisher style, she’s even already put together a multitude of looks for you to peruse.  Which is exactly what she’d do if you were to walk into the store.  She’d gather her favorite items from the latest shipment and mix and match and tell you just the reasons why you simply must have that Gerard Darel jacket, all the while shoving various ensemble ideas at your naked self standing in her dressing room.

Now?  Now we can all stand naked at our very own front door and wait for the UPS man to bring us big fat boxes filled with fabulous clothes.  Our wallets will shrink, our closets will grow, and we all, every single one of us, will look absolutely smashing.   The people at the dog park just won’t know what to make of me now, will they? 

Oscar 2005 Fashion: Mermaids Belong In The Sea

i know at this point it is so daybeforeyesterday's news but i feel compelled to write about the oscars. we all know that at one point in my nakedjen lifetime i lived and died by the manolos and versaces. the oscar's red carpet makes me practically hyperventilate in anticipation of what might just appear.

i have one primary thing to say about this year's overall fashion statement. mermaids do far better swimming in the sea than they do walking on the planet.

i was not at all impressed by the mermaid gowns. not at all. this is primarily because those who chose to wear them would have looked FAR BETTER if they had chosen a different style of dress. a mermaid gown is not flattering to those of us who have broad hips. and honey, that's most of us. really and truly. we are women. we are meant to create life. we have broad hips. very few of us can pull off a gown that is hugging our hips like a girdle only to then accentuate their broadness with a flippy skirt near our feet. just doesn't work.

there's been a lot of talk about hilary swank's dress. oprah nearly went into cardiac arrest gushing over it. and we all know if oprah says it's fabulous, well we're going to have ten million women all around the world rushing to buy one just like it. i hope that in this case they don't. we all must remember that hilary swank had a team of professional trainers working with her seven days a week to have a back that beautiful. a back that had not an ounce of fat and beautiful lats and was just lovely to look at. the rest of us, oprah included, do not have backs like that. and our backs aren't going to look quite that good in that dress. let's also remember that we don't have the "magic" underwear that hollywood has. just like they have magic potions for their hair, they also have magic undergarments. some day one of us is going to crack that code and make millions of dollars sharing those magic undergarments with the rest of the world. but right now? we're stuck with our panties from victoria's secret. and those are not going to cut it under that dress.

the thing about that dress? it was lovely if hilary had been walking into the oscars BACKWARDS. but we don't walk into the oscars backwards, now, do we? no, we walk into the oscars and up to the stage facing forward. and hilary admitted that she chose it because it had LONG SLEEVES and she was worried that it was going to be a cold and chilly night and she wanted to be warm and comfortable. from the front she looked like she was certainly warm and comfortable and all wrapped up mummy style. a bobble head doll over a sea of navy blue fabric. like i said, if she spent the night walking around backwards, it was quite dramatic. but from the front? eh. not so much.

i wasn't quite so enamoured with all the yellow this year. and versace actually got far too much exposure. messy versace, too. poor virginia madsen. she was so proud to tell everyone that her mermaid dress had been made especially for her. the only problem was that when versace actually caught that chicken of the sea girl in their fishing net they forgot to remove the net before dumping virginia into the dress. she was a shipwreck.

i knew that the big bow on penelope cruz's posterior was going to create some problems. i even hoped that mr. de la renta had been kind and had velcroed it in place so she could pop it off and place it in her lap while sitting in her seat. the bow could double as her handbag for the evening! but sadly, this was not the case, and by the time she actually appeared on stage to present the bow had twisted itself into a mangled mess and just created a huge butt distraction. not lovely. not good at all.

another problem we had this year were the squished boobs. women you have breasts. some larger than others. please stop squishing them. it's not a good look. choose a dress that fits! there's an idea. and then if you're sad because it's not quite showing off your pilates thin waist the way you want, well, have it tailored. your stylists are paid a LOT of money. tell your stylist to stop squishing your boobs.  especially your breast-feeding ones!

it was beyonce's oscars and the rest of the folks were just there to act as extras. but beyonce, honey, you goofed when you attempted to actually wear the chandelier from phantom of the opera. there are times when there is too much bling. i needed my sunglasses for that number. and why you sang it instead of emma is still rather confusing to me. she was there in her own little red mermaid frock. why didn't she sing? maybe she didn't want to wear the chandelier?

melanie?  a word of advice.  don't let antonio go shopping in las vegas show girls' second hand shops for your oscar gown, sweetie.  you're not looking quite so fab these days and well, that dress?  not so good.  not so good at all.  but you told everyone who would listen that HE chose it because it was sexy and you were not going to tell him no.  next time?  tell him no.  please. 

kate winslet, who already has my vote because she married sam mendes, knows how to dress. she understands her body. she knows that she needs to avoid those mermaid dresses. a bias cut dress makes her look fabulous. and the one she chose from badgley mischka was so perfect for her. and so fashion forward. blue is this year's black. she looked like a breath of fresh air.

can someone please explain to me what was up with the ankhs? did you all notice johnny depp (who i will forgive for his outfit because he is, johnny depp, and well i expect him to look different) was sporting one in the center of his neck. and other men were sporting them as well? like an ankh has replaced a red ribbon or pink ribbon or whatever the ribbon of the day is. are ankhs some new political fashion statement that the hollywood establishment forgot to send me a memo about?

i will give props to chris rock. for a first time host, he managed to diss just about everyone in the audience in some form or another. i liked his opening monologue imploring hollywood studios to please wait for an actual "star" before making a movie. and how can i not love him for comparing george w's re-election to having a job review at the gap when you've somehow lost $80 trillion dollars in the cash register and have waged war on banana republic? loved that.

i was not happy, though, with the decision to a) put all the nominees on stage or b) give them award in their "section" of the audience. i know that the producers did this to save time, but it only really served to discount those oscars even more. hey, you're up for best short film. but guess what? we don't care. so we're going to have laura linney fashion victim (oh good god, laura, if you had a fashion stylist helping you please FIRE that person rightthisveryminute and i'm guessing you traveled in a time machine back to the 80's for your do?) stand here in the aisle next to your seat where we have all of you crammed together and give you your award right here. right here in the BACK ROW, because we can not be bothered to let you have your few minutes of oscar glory and allow you to walk up to the stage and receive your award like the IMPORTANT people. no. you want to go on stage? well then make a "REAL" movie for god's sake.

but poor martin scorsese made a real movie. and even he didn't get to go up on stage. as much as i thought million dollar baby was a good movie, i think martin scorsese was robbed this year. aviator was a CLASSIC film. it had all the pieces that a BEST PICTURE should have as well. but i'm not a voting member of the academy. so i don't get to choose. but i felt sorry that he didn't win.

my most thrilling moment? charlie kaufman actually WINNING the award for best original screenplay. it's no secret around here that i think he's just brilliant, but i was almost certain that he'd lose out to the aviator just because it seemed like an aviator kind of year. eternal sunshine is quirky. it is brilliant writing, but so not mainstream. but charlie always surprises us, he always is brilliant and i'm so glad that he won. and he certainly seemed just as shocked as the rest of us that he won.

in a hollywood world where mr. kaufman can win for best original screenplay, i still have hope that one day i might be on the arm of my own oscar contender.  yes hope.  because i'm married to one rather quirky and talented screenwriter myself.  and i have big hopes that one day he'll be on stage and forget to thank his wife.  of course, he also knows should i ever get on stage to accept an oscar (what for, you ask?  god knows.  maybe just for being nakedjen) i will thank clyde.  and probably forget to thank anyone else.  well, i'm sure i'll mention the universe.  and that pretty much covers my broad hips, right?  even if they're sporting a mermaid skirt.

p.s.  cinderella?  the pumpkin coach somehow didn't make it.  but your fairy godmother is looking for you. 

someone needs to let that woman know that ORANGE is not her most flattering color.  jeez!

The Hair's Still There

For Lavonne.  Because she asked.  I hope her hair is looking just as stylish these days.  ;-)  It hasn't really grown as much as one might expect since December 21st, has it?  If I were to actually measure, I'd say it's just over an inch long.  It's going to be a while before I'll be needing my ponytail holders.  I think I'm about done, though, with all that grey.  Honestly.  It's time for at least some COLOR on that head of mine, don't you think?

P.S.  I am sorry this is not a nakedfriday picture.  I need to get back in the saddle and start doing those again.  Haven't felt much up for it lately.  But watch this space because I do believe the nakedness will be returning soon. 

Why I'm Like Carrie Bradshaw and Why I'm Not Like Carrie Bradshaw

Tonight begins the end for one of the only reasons I have HBO.  Dave and I have gone around the block about this one so many times that even our friends are all confused as to whether we actually have HBO or not.  We have these long conversations about getting rid of cable television all together.  We discuss the fact that we could join NetFlix and just watch movies.  We wring our hands and admit that we're unemployed and that the extra money we're paying for cable television really shouldn't be in the budget. 

And then I whine about not being able to see the final eight episodes of Sex and the City and Dave capitulates and says okay. 

So tonight, the last hurrah for Carrie and her friends begins.  The last eight episodes.  I have watched this show since its inception.  I read the book before the show.  I read the columns before the book.  I shopped at Patricia Field before she was Patricia Field.  I have identified with Carrie Bradshaw in many ways, but probably most specifically in her love of beautiful shoes.  The shoe episodes of that show got me every single time.   

A very little known fact about me is that I once was a columnist for a newspaper like Carrie.  Instead of writing about sex and the single girl, I was writing about teens and the ones who were actually managing to do positive things instead of ending up in juvenile detention.  Every week I delivered to my editor at least 2000 words about a teenager and his or her perspective on the world in 1980.  However, unlike Ms. Bradshaw, my writing career took a left turn somewhere during college and I ended up a playwright with my observations reserved for spoken words on a stage instead of just newprint on a page.

Now, what am I?  A woman who sits and yearns for a fictional character's shoes and won't allow her husband to cancel the cable until she's seen the final episode.  If I were a person who got depressed, I think that would be certain cause.  But even here, I can see the silver lining. 

Unlike Carrie, I have a husband.  I managed to work through all those bad relationships and my own neuroses to find a wonderful man and to also find the courage to actually say "I do."  And though I will be the first to tell you that a woman does not need a husband to be complete by any means, a husband (or wife or partner) can be a beautiful thing.  Unlike Carrie, I think I'm willing to admit that you will never actually figure it all out.  So much of her life is spent trying to sort it all through, guess what someone else is thinking, predict the if onlys.  I've learned from life that you just need to let it come and keep yourself open to all possibilities.  Fretting too much only gives you wrinkles. 

However, just like Carrie, I will always swoon over the beautiful and perfect shoes.  A woman can never have too many shoes.  Never. 

2003 May Now Rest In Peace

Before I jump into a brand new year, a year ripe with possibilities, a year when perhaps even I will finally decide what it is that I want to be when I grow up (of course that means that I might also have to grow up and that will take some doing in and of itself), I must conclude the last year with one final very long ramble-on post that includes bits and pieces of things that I’ve been thinking of over the last week or so and really want to include here before tearing off that December calendar page and jumping into January.

I don’t care that it is already January and that this post will in fact reflect that.  It’s my blog and since it’s my blog, I’m going to take the liberty to stay in 2003 for just a little while longer to reflect on some things that feel important to me even if they may seem trivial to others.

First, of course, is shopping.  One of my favorite topics and lately an activity fraught with angst and worry for me.  In my old life, the life I enjoyed in early November when I had a job that I really didn’t like so well but that paid all the bills, I loved to shop.  Shopshopshop.  Especially for very fine shoes and very fine clothing items.  Oh the joy I experienced when I found the perfect pair of shoes or that sexiest black dress. 

Last Sunday, I went shopping.  Before I even went I was filled with slight trepidation as I know the current status of our bank account and am well aware that we are both currently job seekers (as Billy would say) and the money is not exactly rolling in to replace the money that is rolling out for daily living expenses here in Santa Cruz.  However, Matt and Lisa were going to hit the post-holiday sales and since this included a trip to Santana Row among other places I joined in for the fun. 

The Universe was both helpful and hurtful that day.  There was nothing to buy.  Quite literally there was nothing even on sale.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  There were things on sale.  Just nothing anyone who thinks clearly would actually want to purchase.  That was until I entered Nordstroms in an effort to use their Ladies Room.  Here’s where the Universe decided to truly test my resolve.

I managed to make my way past all the beautiful and amazing shoes that were quite literally making catcalls to me as I walked past trying my best to avoid them.  Despite their “Hey Baby, look at me” incantations, I remained strong in my resolve not to touch them or ask the price, lest I be tempted to try one or two on just for kicks and then succumb to the feel of hand-tooled leather on my little feet and a thought that if I don’t get these perfect shoes right this very minute I might simply perish.  Those of you who do not suffer as a shoe fetishist can not possibly relate, I’m sure.  But I am talking to those of you who know exactly why Imelda Marcos had all those shoes in her many closets.  I know that YOU completely understand.

It took all my strength, will and resolve to keep walking for the escalators and skip the shoe department.  I’ll admit that once on the escalators I did contemplate running back down and throwing myself prostrate at the bottom of the Manalo Blahnik display (oh if you could have just seen the lovely pink paisley numbers) but as there were many gray-haired old ladies who followed me onto the escalator and knowing I would probably have trampled at least one as I elbowed my way back down, I refrained. 

Phew.  I thought I was safe.

Thought, that is, until I got off the escalator on the second floor and headed towards the Ladies Room. 

The second floor of this particular Nordstrom is where all the designer clothing resides.  I had left the designer shoes and delivered myself into the designer clothing racks.  And they were having a sale.  Sixty percent off on some of those one of a kind items if you could find your size.  Racks and racks of lovelylovelylovely things were sitting there just taunting and teasing me. 

I stopped.  I looked.  I couldn’t believe that the D&G jeans were only $99.  There was the cutest pink wool suit by Moschino for just $249.  A steal, really.  And oh my, was that really a Roberto Cavelli dress?  I will even admit that I took things off the rack and held them up to my body.  Then I’d look at the price tag, shake my head that the discount was so grand and put it back on the rack.  I have a closet over-flowing with designer clothes.  I don’t even have a job.  Those beautiful things would have to stay right where they were.

So I pushed my way through.  I was on a mission.  The Ladies Room called.  And I was only fifteen feet away at this point.  I could make it.  I had willpower.  Nothing could stop me. 

Nothing that is, except a certain blush pink dress by Michael Kors. 

The exact dress worn by Sarah Jessica Parker's character Carrie on an episode of Sex and the City this season.  A dress so nearly perfect that when I saw it in just the preview for the show I exclaimed to Dave, “I’ve got to find that dress!”  And Dave laughed and wondered aloud why I needed yet another fancy dress when I don’t wear half the ones already hanging in my closets. 

There it was.  Hanging by itself between me and the Ladies Room.  And because I needed to be completely tormented, it was my size exactly. 

I picked it up.  It was only $398.  Yes, only.  I thought only when I picked it up.  I thought only as I held it up to me and felt how absolutely perfect it was.  I thought only as I felt the silk and noticed the details and the seams.  I thought only as I carried it with me towards the cashier.  I continued thinking only as I looked around at Michael Kors Spring collection that is predominantly pinks and yellows and oranges and thought to myself how cute some of those things would be, too.  I thought only until I snapped out of it for goodness sake! 

$398 is not in our budget right now.  Not even close.  So just as I was about to hand that perfect little party dress to the nice cashier lady at Nordstrom my bladder suddenly reminded me about the Ladies Room, I snapped back to reality and I quickly jumped out of line.  The perfect little blush pink party dress was going back on the rack.  I was going to the Ladies.  Our bank account would remain intact.  And that was that.  Disaster narrowly averted, perfect pink dress left for another lucky size 8. 

On Tuesday afternoon we were invited to the Fossgreen’s house for dinner.  Don Fossgreen works for the company that used to employ both Dave and me.  In other words, he’s a former co-worker and he’s a very lovely and kind and generous person.  His wife, Veronique, is from France.  She’s equally lovely and kind and generous. They have two sons, Alex and Paul.  I learned a lot about Don and Veronique and their children during the course of that dinner.  Things I had never known or even thought to ask while we were co-workers.  Things that made me love him and his family even more.

The Fossgreen’s live in a very nice house in Scotts Valley.  Dave and I learned that is was once just a shack and that they’ve done extensive remodeling projects over the years to make it what it is today.  They claim they are still not finished.  I guess that’s what happens when you buy a house.  There’s always a project. 

Their house is so comfortable and inviting.  They’ve done a marvelous job of making it a real home.  They’ve got a huge backyard where they’ve put in a patio and a hot tub.  Dave and I were given a tour and learned all about how during renovations they first lived in a trailer (with two small boys) and then in the garage, splitting it right down the middle with all of their furniture! 

We all helped make dinner together.  Ratatouille, wild rice, salmon, bread with a garlic parsley butter (that was so good you wanted to lick it off your fingers) and salad with a wonderful lemon and garlic vinaigrette. All of that was served with the most delicious red wine that Don had chosen from his extensive cellar.  And even though we were stuffed, we still managed to follow everything with a delightful cheese course.  You can never have too much cheese!

It was at dinner that I learned that Alex, who is 14, is a huge Danny Elfman fan.  I have to tell you that I was very impressed by this.  How many 14 year olds do you know that even know whom Danny Elfman is?  I shared with Alex my own love for Danny and the fact that I had met him once since he was once the boyfriend of a former boss of mine. 

Actually, I was very impressed with both of Don’s kids because they are such unique and gregarious individuals and you can tell from talking with both of them that they have been nurtured to see the world with their own eyes and to make their own decisions.  That will serve them well.

We ended the evening with a long discussion on movies, especially French ones, and books and a soak in the hot tub munching on cherries.  It was a great evening and Dave and I are excited to return the invitation.

Our New Year’s Eve began with no plans.  A few calls around to our friends proved that everyone else was otherwise engaged.  Dave and I went downtown to see the annual New Years Eve First Night parade and then stopped by the steps of the Civic Center where our friend Max was performing with his improv troupe.  We came home and were contemplating a hot tub and massage, but all the hot tub/massage places were closed for the evening.  So then we figured we’d go get some sushi, see Peter Pan and then hit the clock tower to ring in the New Year with our fellow Santa Cruzans. 

However, our friends Aaron and Aleks called and invited us to dinner at Takara (another sushi restaurant).  Well, we wanted sushi, so why not?  We decided we could go meet them for sushi, perhaps hit Heartwood afterwards (Heartwood is another hot tub place that was actually closing last night so it was free for everyone who wanted to come), and then still possibly hit the movie and the clock tower to ring in the new year.

Well that was the plan.  But as 2003 taught both of us well, plans don’t always go as planned.  Dinner was fun.  Dan, a longtime friend of Aaron and Aleks was there with them and I always find him rather entertaining.  He has recently done the Forum and even did EST long ago, so I had no shortage of things to talk about with him.  He also has family in Philadelphia and insisted on calling them at 9:00 p.m. to wish them all a happy new year.  Aaron and Aleks told us about the drive back and forth to Salt Lake City where they had gone for the holidays.  And they talked about playing poker with Aleks’ family.  Which shifted the conversation to cards.

Suddenly it was decided that we’d all go over to A&A’s house to play poker and soak in their hot tub.  Off we all went.  Poker was played.  And played.  And played some more.  Since there were no poker chips in the house, we used Monopoly money.  We played Texas Hold-Em until well after the delayed ball had dropped in Time’s Square (we flipped it on with ten seconds to spare).  We never did get in the hot tub, but A&A promise we’ll soak when we return on Saturday night.  They’re having us over for dinner and movies and maybe some games. 

Today was spent dodging rain drops, saying good-bye to my electric blue umbrella which suffered a horrible death thanks to the wind accompanying all the rain, and in search of the perfect calendar(s) at our local bookshop that was having a huge sale.  I didn’t find the perfect calendar(s), but we did meet Matt and Lisa and went to Lulu’s for coffee and pie and conversation.  Conversation about our job searches and the possible move to either New York or LA.  For those keeping score, New York is winning by a landslide, but San Francisco has now entered the competition.  Dave has decided that he will get a job that supports us and spent much of today looking for one.  One that means I don’t have to worry about the money situation (except when pink dresses scream my name and are 60% off and I think they’re only $398…I think then, I will have to worry about the money situation and figure out how such a perfect pink confection will be acquired).  But he’s up for the challenge of helping to make my life not so challenging.  I do believe he’s the best husband on the entire planet.  At least for me. 

So now, finally, it is 2004.  A year when I will turn 40.  A year when I have absolutely everything to look forward to because I have nothing holding me back and have finished looking backwards.  A year when I can truly decide what it is that I want to be and go for it without any regrets.  If 2003 was the year when I discovered my authenticity, I hope that 2004 will be the year that I grow into it and become even more empowered. 

Dave and I are truly not sure what this year will hold.  We both have high hopes and aspirations for lots of wonderful and amazing things.  If even just one of those things happens this year, I will consider it a year well lived.  And if none of them happen, I suppose that as long as I live each day with gratitude and grace and kindness towards all I know and and all I love, it will still be a year well lived. 

Onward to 2004.  2003 may now rest in peace.